A Commonplace Day by Thomas Hardy

The day is turning ghost,And scuttles from the kalendar in fits and furtively,To join the anonymous hostOf those that throng oblivion; ceding his place, maybe,To one of like degree.

I part the fire-gnawed logs,Rake forth the embers, spoil the busy flames, and lay the endsUpon the shining dogs;Further and further from the nooks the twilight's stride extends,And beamless black impends.

Nothing of tiniest worthHave I wrought, pondered, planned; no one thing asking blame orpraise,Since the pale corpse-like birthOf this diurnal unit, bearing blanks in all its rays -Dullest of dull-hued Days!

Wanly upon the panesThe rain slides as have slid since morn my colourless thoughts; andyetHere, while Day's presence wanes,And over him the sepulchre-lid is slowly lowered and set,He wakens my regret.

Regret--though nothing dearThat I wot of, was toward in the wide world at his prime,Or bloomed elsewhere than here,To die with his decease, and leave a memory sweet, sublime,Or mark him out in Time . . .

--Yet, maybe, in some soul,In some spot undiscerned on sea or land, some impulse rose,Or some intent upstoleOf that enkindling ardency from whose maturer glowsThe world's amendment flows;

But which, benumbed at birthBy momentary chance or wile, has missed its hope to beEmbodied on the earth;And undervoicings of this loss to man's futurityMay wake regret in me.